[STORY] NC-17
The Feeding
by Anonymous
Did you know that Bloatflies are capable of traveling incredibly long distances even when injured? It's common biology: when a Bloatfly is wounded or attempting to mate, they'll pool every bit of their strength together to find a warm, dark place to heal or lay their eggs at. In the Wasteland, these places are typically old houses and caved in storm cellars; if you're hunting for treasure or monsters and your travels take you to one of these places, it isn't entirely uncommon to find a colony of Bloatfly hatchlings and their angry parents waiting for you, none too pleased to see you in their home.
Fifty years ago when I was growing up in the Hub, things were much different than they are today. Back then, we didn't have the BHA; monsters weren't at all afraid of venturing close to the city. Sometimes they'd even find their way in, but as far as I can remember, it was rare for anyone to be killed directly by one. As long as you didn't bother them, they didn't bother you. Most of the time, they were just looking for a place to settle down in. Once, one of those dog creatures wandered up our street and was shot dead within the hour before it could even open its mouth to howl. I remember the look in its eyes so clearly, even if it was muddy with hunger and radiation craziness - it was lonely, and it was afraid. Likely, all it wanted was a warm place to lay in out of the cold.
For the first twelve years of my life, I shared a bedroom with my older sister. Even though we were three years apart in age, we got along fine and only argued when she wanted to shoo me out so she could be alone to read or talk to her boyfriend on her CLD. One of the things we used to butt heads over was the state of our window; the wire screen had a hole in it, you see, about as big as my dad's hand, and sometimes when it was a particularly cold or windy night a draft would blow around the room and chill us. Stuffing the hole with tissues or old rags didn't work, and we didn't have the money to get a new screen, so me and my sister were always harping on my mother to get it patched up. Her answer was always a tentative when we get the money or an even more vague soon, and we learned never to get our hopes up for too long and to rely on the rags.
Sometimes having a draft in our room wasn't so bad. In the summer when it was hot, we would leave the hole unplugged so as to keep the room cool. On one such night, I was laying in bed awake with the covers over my head, thinking about something really piddly and insignificant like the homework I was supposed to do but hadn't or something like that. The heat didn't bother me too much, but there was something comforting about having the blankets over me; something safe.
As I was laying there slowly falling asleep, I heard something outside our window - a really faint, sluggish kind of buzzing and a thwump as something hit our screen. You can imagine how scary that must have been, but me being just a kid and a cowardly one at that, I kept the blankets over my head. Whatever it was sounded pretty tired or pretty hurt, and logic always dictates that hurt, tired things don't have the energy to do much hurting. Eventually and quickly, I forced myself to sleep with that knowledge.
When I woke up the next day, I saw a dead Bloatfly on the floor next to my sister's bed. Before she woke up, I wrapped the thing in an old, dirty piece of cloth and threw it out. It was better if my mom and dad didn't see the thing because if they did they'd pitch a fit about us not continuing to plug the hole in the screen up. I didn't tell my sister either, and she was none the wiser. When she woke up that morning, she went straight to the kitchen and began to eat breakfast, same as we all did.
Life was as normal as ever for the next few days, and although my family had nothing to argue or worry about, my sister was starting to act a little strange. She'd come home from school and go straight to the kitchen, eating whatever she could find in the cupboards and twice as much for dinner, making the rest of us look like we were going on a diet. She'd always sleep for long periods of time, too, unless it was time to eat or someone on her CLD messaged her. It's a growth spurt, dad said once at the table, Everyone in our family is a late bloomer. And girls have different hormones than boys do, so they grow differently. It made sense.
But as the month went on, something seemed a little strange. My sister, once a smiling, athletic and incredibly vain girl, had become lethargic and pale. All she seemed to do these days was eat, sleep and run an occasional fever. Home remedies didn't seem to have an effect and neither did rest; it was like all of her energy was being sucked dry by a greedy vacuum. One day after school, mom sent me into our room to wake her up. When I went in, the curtains were drawn so as to allow only the smallest amount of light in and a smell--musty and sweaty, the smell that a body excretes naturally when sick--wafted around the room. She was wrapped up in the blankets, unmoving and wheezing quietly.
I didn't want to bother her, not because I thought she'd slap me silly for intruding, but because there was something incredibly vile and filthy about shaking her awake, like I was putting my hands on a ball of filth. Still, I did so anyway. Her body made no resistance when I turned her around, seeing that her eyes were open. They were bloodshot and pink and held something deeper in their depths that looked like hopelessness. If death had a face, it would have been this.
I told her that it was late in the afternoon and she got up slowly, weakly, dragging her feet across the floor and muttering something about her stomach hurting. Maybe you ate a bike, I joked. She didn't seem to hear me, instead saying that she wanted to take a shower.
There was little much to do. I watched her go off to the bathroom, listened to her shut the door and turn the faucets, and went about my afternoon. I think I might've played a game on my CLD, did some homework, and talked to a friend - all of that in the span of a few hours. I didn't see my sister at all. By the time my mother was getting dinner ready, she was still in the bathroom. Mom took notice and, not wanting to send a boy into the bathroom while a young lady was in there, went to knock on the door; she called my sister's name and there was no answer. A second time, a third time, and still nothing. Worried, she opened the door and went in. Less than a minute later, I heard a scream and, not being able to help myself, rushed in to look over my mom's shoulder.
There was my sister, nude, laying in the bathtub as the shower head continued to pour water on her sickly body, all over her distended stomach. I never noticed how bloated it looked until now - how full. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring at some spot on the wall as something pushed against her stomach. A whole bunch of somethings, pushing gently for the first few seconds and then incessantly as if struggling, and all I could do was watch, spellbound and sickened, as my mother began to scream again. Soon, my sister started screaming, too.
The pushing was accompanied by cracking, wet plopping as if a pair of hands were shifting through meat, that grew louder and more distinct as the seconds passed. Comparatively, my sister's wailing was growing weaker and weaker until it stopped altogether, a final loud crunch silencing everything as a wriggling mass of white worms erupted from her ruined ribcage. They squirmed onto the tub's floor along with her blood, and my mother screamed loud enough for the three of us.
My parents found the decomposing Bloatfly in our garbage a few days later. My father, knowledgeable about monsters, said that after laying their eggs, Bloatflies die from dehydration unless they give birth close to a water source.